


Inverse

by sunsetmog



Category: Rugby RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-29
Updated: 2007-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/pseuds/sunsetmog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story, in five parts. Backwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inverse

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://sunsetmog-fics.livejournal.com/24968.html) in October 2007.
> 
> For swiv, who is an evil enabler when it comes to suggesting writing fic about Josh Lewsey. Also to say thank you for putting up with me for the second World Cup final in a row. Brian O'Driscoll's part in all this is entirely down to me, partly because I keep forgetting I find him horribly attractive whenever I see him play. Thanks also go to m_l_h for linking me (ages ago!) to drunken pictures of BOD himself. I've also taken various liberties with actual events – mainly injuries -partly because it works better my way but mainly because there's only so much reliable information you can glean from Wikipedia. For those of you who can't rely upon lightning quick recall skills (I can't, I had to actually, you know, look things up) notes regarding each of the scenarios can be found at the end of the fic.

**5\. Final Weekend, March 2007. Six Nations Championships.**

Ireland play like kings for the second year in a row and maybe this year it's their year, maybe this time they've done it and clinched the trophy. At the final whistle Brian thinks he might be prouder than he's ever been in his whole fucking life (but he thought that _last_ year, and then they announced he'd won Player of the Tournament and it was off the fucking scale). He's half-dead with exhaustion and there's a pain in his shoulder that he wasn't feeling during play, but he's beaming and that's all that counts. 

He's overwhelmed with pride and excitement and sheer exhilaration but he can't wait to get out of the way of the TV cameras and the sports interviewers and pundits and the radio microphones because he wants to talk to Josh and he wants to see his team and _Christ_ , he wishes Josh was here. 

But Josh isn't here, he isn't in Rome cheering Brian on. He's in Cardiff, waiting for the England match to start, waiting to see if England could wipe the smile off Ireland's face—off France's face—and clinch the championship in its dying minutes. Josh isn't even playing, he'll be in the stands knowing that he had failed to make an impact over the past few weeks—apart from a howler of a mistake that clinched the decision to drop him in favour of Mark Cueto. Brian has to sit through the rest of the afternoon knowing that the championship could be taken from the Irish at any moment, and he's got to do it knowing that Josh isn't playing a part at all. It doesn't make it any easier. 

It's one of the closest tournaments Brian can remember (and last year was a close run thing between Ireland and France) and winning it has come down to points difference. All Brian can do to clinch his championship is sit and hope that France don't trounce Scotland and England fail to bury the Welsh. The rest of the team are in the Players Lounge watching the big screen with eyes like hawks, screaming for Scotland and hoping that Wales don't put up too poor a fight. They were drinking—it was the end of the tournament, of _course_ they were drinking—but they weren't _drinking_. Not yet. They were hanging on, clutching bottles and pint glasses and saving the real drinking for the moment when they knew they'd won. 

All the sports channels want interviews with Brian, even though Brian's mind clearly isn't on the job. It's bad enough being stuck in Italy and having to struggle to comprehend most of the time (from both sides, even the interpreters had occasional problems figuring out Brian's accent) but he's been sending texts to Josh and he hasn't had anything back. Sky Sports News interview him and catch him waving his phone in the air trying to get a network. He makes the fatal mistake of not paying attention to the interviewer (who is asking him _do you think you'll get player of the tournament two years in a row, Brian_ ) and by the way the boys jostle and laugh when he gets back to the bar, they've all seen him looking like a complete tool and answering _what? Yes, of course. Definitely_ —before catching up and figuring out what they asked and hastily backtracking. 

His phone is on vibrate in his back pocket and he knows that he's waiting for it to buzz almost as much as he's waiting for France to screw up and give the ball away. 

They don't win the championship, just the Triple Crown, but England don't win either. It's France for the title, and it dampens the Irish spirit. They drink, they cheer, they shout and break a table when six of them stand on it to sing _Fields of Athenry_ but this was supposed to have been their year, their run up to the World Cup and Brian can't help but be disappointed. He drinks through the pain and he finds himself back in his hotel room at 5 in the morning, clutching his phone and trying to reply to a text from Josh. Brian's been on his fair share of benders over the years and he used to be the one left standing long after everyone else had slithered under the table in a puddle of spilt lager and whisky, but times have changed and Brian has had to give up whilst there was still alcohol behind the bar and before the sun had come up. Josh always made fun of his drunken texts (saving them to laugh at them later, even) but Brian thinks he may have surpassed himself this time. He buries his face in the pillow and is asleep even before he's let go of his phone. 

They fly back to Ireland to a lukewarm heroes welcome (Brian can't help but feel that _almost but not quite_ isn't anything worth celebrating) and by the time Brian gets back to his house, he's knackered and smelling like stale alcohol and the post-match pain is setting in so he feels battered and bruised. 

Josh is waiting for him, asleep upstairs in Brian's bed. 

Josh has only had a key for the past few weeks (a bit of a pointless gesture, Brian had thought, considering they lived in different countries, but at the sight of Josh in his bed he's biting back all those previous arguments against sharing), but Josh has already made himself at home. He's lying diagonally across the bed when Brian finds him, bare feet curled under the warmth of the shucked duvet, wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt that's two sizes too small with _put your faith in BOD_ in big letters across the front. There's a half-finished tumbler of whisky on the bedside table and Josh's hair is curly—he'd clearly fallen asleep straight out of the shower. There's a damp towel neatly folded across the back of the wardrobe door and Josh's bag has been unpacked tidily onto the chest of drawers. Brian wonders—as usual - if Josh was always this precise, or whether his neat organisation was a result of his spell in the army. 

Josh looks exhausted and worn out, even in sleep, and Brian has always been aware that with winning comes losing. It's a relatively recent realisation that there's a third category, standing on the sidelines, and for the most part that's worse than either taking the glory or losing. Josh's laptop is on the chair by the side of the bed (probably taking hasty advantage of Brian's internet connection, reading every article he can find about the rugby—knowing Josh he'd probably managed to get hold of a copy of the matches from somewhere and sat up in bed re-watching every pass of the tournament). Brian—although exhausted and bruised and stiff from the journey—quietly pulls off his jacket and drops it on the floor. He's not as tidy as Josh and knowing Josh as long as he has, he's aware that the first thing Josh will do in the morning is likely to be tidying up after him. After he's fallen over Brian's kitbag, of course, which Brian has conveniently left at the bottom of the stairs before he knew that Josh was upstairs, tempting him even in sleep. 

He thinks about going downstairs and moving it out of the way—if Josh tidied it away it's likely Brian wouldn't come across it until next Christmas—but watching Josh sleep, chest rising and falling softly with each breath, he can't pull himself away. He tiredly pulls off the rest of his clothes, leaving them on the floor before heading into the bathroom. He uses Josh's damp towel to dry himself after he'd soaped away the stale scent of the aeroplane and the remains of the previous night's drinking. He genuinely could not be prouder of his team mates or of his win or of the Triple Crown, but there's still a championship shaped hole that he can't fill. He wants to share the win with Josh, to taste the burn of satisfaction on the skin of the person he—

Brian shakes his head and towels his hair dry. 

Josh is awake when he goes back into the bedroom, lazily propped up against the pillows with one arm behind his head. He's smiling sleepily. "I wanted to be here when you got back," he says.

Brian just smiles back, shaking his head and saying "where the bloody hell did you find that t-shirt?" Which is Brian's way of saying _I wanted you here too_.

Josh just says "ebay", with a grin, and then Brian's kneeling over Josh and kissing him, Josh pushing up against him with sleep-drenched fingers meandering their way down Brian's still-damp back. 

Brian says: _I appreciate the gesture, but can you just take it off now?_ Or rather, that's what he means to say but he's kissing Josh and running his hands up Josh's arms, touching his cheek, his neck, the flat of his palm against Josh's stomach. Then his t-shirt's off and he's shrugging off his tracksuit bottoms and Brian's towel is on the floor and Brian's too caught up in the moment to think about what this all means. 

In the morning (almost afternoon, they're lazy and it's been a long few weeks) Josh goes downstairs to get them both coffee and makes Brian bring the laptop back over to the bed. ("Lazy," Brian says, elbowing Josh. Josh says "Fuck you," and Brian thinks _yes_ ). Josh has bookmarked the clip of Brian on Sky Sports News on youtube—apparently rugby fans are pretty quick off the mark when it comes to the Irish captain making a complete tit of himself on the TV—and he plays it six times in a row, laughing at the bit where they cut back to the studio and the presenters end up saying "well, congratulations to Brian O'Driscoll and the Ireland team on their win, but it looks like Brian's got his mind on other things, don't you think?"

Brian just ends up pouting (not very flattering, he thinks, but then he's got a black eye and his bruises are coming up and every bone in his body aches) and saying _you weren't texting me back_ , which is what every rugby player wants to be caught saying to their significant other. 

Josh just rolls his eyes and says "you great big _girl_ " and then they're elbowing each other and grinning and Brian rolls Josh off the bed and onto the floor with a _thump_. By the time it comes to reaching over for their coffee, it's gone cold and then there's an argument about who's going down to make a fresh pot.

They don't talk about the rugby result, not really. Josh just says _Bloody France—_ which was a catch-all statement, really—and then gives Brian the best blow job he thinks he's ever had. Over the past couple of years of secretly stalking Josh, Brian has come to realise that national loyalties are almost impossible to overcome. They both try—and they both seem to know that mutual appreciation is there even if they can't seem to vocalise it. Afterwards, Brian rests a palm on Josh's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and the room stills. 

Later on, they put the TV on and end up fucking to a soundtrack of bad talk shows and repeats of American cop shows from the seventies. 

When Josh is above him, fingers digging into his biceps, sweat-slippery palms tracing jagged, haphazard pathways across his chest, Brian thinks Josh looks like an angel surrounded by the flickering halo of daytime television, the spring sunshine pushing against the curtains. 

They go out for a run—just a short one, but they've been stuck inside and Brian's stiffening up and he needs to catch his breath. Later on, when they've showered and eaten (Josh had picked up food before Brian had flown in) they pour shots of the good stuff into heavy, cut-glass tumblers and taste the heady remnants in the tail-end of lazy kisses. Josh knees him in the stomach rolling him over on the sofa and Brian hisses in a breath as he presses himself to Josh, feeling the burn of tired, bruised muscles with every movement. 

They end up watching Indiana Jones on one of the film channels, Brian dozing lazily with his head on Josh's shoulder. He wakes up with the closing titles to find he'd buried his face against Josh's neck, breath hot against Josh's skin. The room is too warm. 

Brian waits for Josh to push him away now he's awake, but it doesn't happen. He's woken up slowly, a shift in breathing and mumbled, half-formed words damp in the curve of Josh's neck. He pulls away with heavy limbs—Christ, tournaments took it out of you—and for a moment they just stare at each other. 

Brian wonders how it can be that they can both not be saying the exact same thing at the exact same time. 

Josh's fingers stroke his forearm, his thumb touching the pale underside of his wrist. It makes Brian's skin burn. He opens his mouth and says _I love you_ before he even has time to think about it. 

Josh's grip tightens around his wrist and Brian thinks for a moment he's blown it, ruined this quiet equilibrium. 

Josh just watches him without saying anything. He touches each part of Brian in turn, thumbs dipping into the warm curves of sleep-pressed skin. His fingers explore the tight, straight plains of Brian's muscles (bruises yellowing and blackening even beneath Josh's gentle fingers) and Brian's gasping his appreciation onto the damp air even before he realises Josh is kissing each bruise in turn. 

Brian thinks that maybe this is the only way Josh knows to say it back, but afterwards, when Brian's trying to catch his breath, Josh leans over and touches his nose to Brian's ear. "I love you," he says, quietly, and Brian tries not to smile like a loon but he can't help it. 

Later on, they fall asleep in a tangle of bed sheets and warm breath.

**4\. Summer 2006. Downtime.**

Josh—like most of the rest of the England players, it seems—has been unlucky with injury. He tries not to complain (Brian thinks that _stoic_ might have been invented to describe Josh) but the frustration Josh feels is obvious. He ends up on the phone to Brian a lot, talking about sitting out of training and only playing half a match and ringing him up in the middle of the night because of the muscle pain. Sometimes, when they'd upped his pain medication, when his voice was hazy and thick from the analgesics, he'd ring Brian and talk about how much he missed playing, about how this might be the end, about how he might not play for England any more. He never said _I miss you, I wish you were here,_ but Brian heard it loud and clear anyway, vibrating at a hum somewhere just below everything Josh said. 

Brian's spent far too long preoccupied with Josh's treatment and recuperation and recovery. He's asked too many supposedly hypothetical questions of the physios at Leinster and even more of the Ireland coaching team. He's probably roused suspicion but he doesn't care—he tells himself it's worth it just to get that heavy note out of Josh's voice when he calls. During the daytime, Josh is positive and strong and geared towards his recovery and his call back to the England squad once he's fit. Late in the evening, when Brian really should be calling it a night because he's got training in the morning and he's thecaptain (despite his smoking and drinking and the lush days of his youth, Brian's got a lot older in recent years, and it's finally hitting him that he needs to concentrate on rugby if they're even going to have a chance at the wrestling the World Cup from England's grasp next year), later in the evening Josh wrestles with the darker note that underpins his conversations—his frustrations, his boredom, his anger. Brian wants the old Josh back, and he's willing to risk whatever it takes to get that. 

So when Josh is given what may count as the all-clear at the same time as being declared free of rugby commitments for the summer, Brian can't help but think that this could mean the end of Josh's international career. He prepares himself for more late night dark conversations, and he tries to remember what it felt like when there was a possibility he wouldn't play international rugby again. Of course, English rugby had more of a reputation for not benching it's older players—grumpy old men, indeed—than any other team, but being declared fit and still not being picked didn't sound particularly positive. He knows the day is going to come when he has to retire from international rugby, but thankfully that day is not this day and Brian doesn't dwell on it. 

Instead, he rings Josh and asks him what he's going to do with his downtime. Brian has some half-arsed idea of going away—maybe a couple of weeks in the Irish hills for nothing but sex and each other, or perhaps he'd settle for a fortnight in the Canaries, boozing and getting a bit lairy. He didn't really care too much so long as there was a healthy mixture of alcohol, Josh and sex. He's gearing himself up to suggest a holiday when Josh cuts him off to tell him he's going to the Himalayas. 

In his wildest, wildest dreams Brian doesn't expect Josh to say that. 

Josh probably didn't expect Brian to go off on one, but he does. He's pissed off at himself, really, for expecting something of him and Josh that clearly Josh didn't expect back. He feels a bit stupid and a bit floored (no one goes to the Himalayas for a holiday, not unless they were a complete _nutcase_ ) and then he's back to feeling stupid again. He ends up telling Josh that he's a complete fucking idiot, that he's going to get himself killed and probably sacked into the bargain and that'll be the end of his rugby career. He points out that Wasps will probably sue him at the same time as sacking him, and then he'll be broke as well as out of a job, and _Christ_ , he was only just recovered from the same injuries he'd been moaning about for months, surely heading off for the world's highest mountain was likely to exacerbatethem? For good measure, and perhaps because he didn't say it loud enough the first time, and definitely because he was feeling stupid, he calls Josh a stupid fucking idiot with a brain the size of a pea. 

And then he takes a deep breath and stumbles abruptly to a halt. 

Josh is silent down the other end of the line. 

Then there's a moment and they're arguing, a great big screaming row that has Brian pacing his house and punching the wall once he's hung up. Brian says things he regrets almost as soon as he's saying them, but then so does Josh. They call each other names ( _dickhead, prick, fuckwit_ ) and Brian points out that it isn't as if they're even _serious_ about each other (it's not like we're _married_ , you can do whatever the fuck you like, see if I fucking care) and how much Brian had on this summer so it wasn't like he could drop everything to go and carry on with Josh anyway, even if he'd wanted to (well, I was just ringing to tell you I hadn't got a weekend free until September _anyway_ ) and that was it. 

Brian wants what he's said to make a difference, to somehow change Josh's mind. He's steaming when he comes off the phone, so he ends up running ten miles and coming home filthy-wet with sweat and mud. There's no message on his mobile or on his house phone. He kicks the sofa with one muddy socked foot, and it hurts like hell. 

It doesn't change Josh's mind. He goes anyway, and he doesn't bother telling his club either. He gets as far as K2 and Base Camp and Brian can't help but wonder why he wasn't born with the sort of genes that make trekking in the Himalayas seem like a fun thing to do. He tells himself that Josh was in the _army_ (an officer, no less) and that he did that sort of thing for kicks, but Brian can't help but err on the side of _what the fuck_? He's stupidly pissed off at Josh for fucking off and leaving him for the summer—not that Josh couldn't do that sort of thing if he wanted, it wasn't as if they were even officially together or anything, but still. Brian is drinking more than he should and partying more than he should because he's bored and pissed off at both himself and Josh. 

He ends up getting drunk at some nightclub opening that he wouldn't have even bothered attending if Josh wasn't off being a prick up a mountain. Well, okay, Brian is hardly one for turning down a free drink, but he might not have behaved like such a dickhead if Josh wasn't off somewhere proving once and for all that they weren't together. He's slurring his words before it's a respectable hour to be doing so, and he makes an arse of himself when he tries to hand over money for alcohol after he's been told repeatedly it's all free. He's dancing like a complete tit (dancing might be a little optimistic) and he's managed to get hold of a bottle of champagne rather than one of those stupid flutes to drink from. He tries to get some girl off the TV to show him her breasts after being egged on by his friends. He's somewhat surprised—even in his inebriated state—when she agrees and they end up back at her flat, tripping over glass coffee tables of questionable taste and then having not-particularly-excellent sex on the sofa and then again on the bed. 

Brian wakes up two hours later with a pounding head and a stupidly excessive amount of guilt for someone who isn't in any sort of official relationship. He doesn't bother being quiet as he stumbles around her flat, looking for his keys and downing a pint of water before letting the front door slam on his way out. 

He gets home and drinks the remains of a bottle of whisky and passes out on the bathroom floor, arm around the bowl. He hasn't behaved like such a twat in years. He wishes Josh were here. 

It's a fortnight later when Josh rings from one of the outposts, and the line is fucking awful but Brian's so relieved to hear from him that it doesn't make a difference. The call is brief—barely two minutes—and Brian's so overcome with guilt that it can only be a relief that the line is so bad he can't make himself heard.

It's a week later when Josh rings him from Heathrow, telling him he's got a connecting flight and he'll be in Ireland with him in a matter of hours. He says: _I love—vodafone. I've got my own network back, it's brilliant. I hate being abroad. I won't be long._

Brian swallows loudly, and says "There's something I've got to tell you."

Josh doesn't catch his connecting flight, and it's a month before he speaks to Brian again. 

**3\. England, March 2006, Six Nations Championship.**

Brian's almost the unwitting hero of a nation once he brings his team to within a grasp of the championship. It's so close he can barely stomach the loss; it comes down to points difference between France and Ireland and the almost-win grates more than outright losing would have done. The Triple Crown means _something_ though, and it's with immense pride that he takes the title home with him. It's a step towards the World Cup in eighteen months time, although it would have been a step closer if they'd managed to clinch the championship too. Still, virtual win aside, everything is just about perfect. He's been living and breathing rugby for the past couple of months and he's living and breathing Josh as well. 

Somehow they're all the same thing when they end up in a hotel room one sticky night just after the end of the tournament. 

They're not that far from Josh's house, but Josh hasn't taken him home once in the nine months they've been doing this. Brian doesn't know why they don't seem to be able to take what happens between the two of them home, but it fits for the pair of them and that's all that's important. Neither he nor Josh count the period between sleeping together at the World Cup and doing it again two years later during the Lions tour. Australia doesn't count although New Zealand does (if Brian and Josh were up for vocalising this sort of discussion they'd probably end up making some sort of arbitrary Southern Hemisphere rugby related analogy, and Brian reckons it's perhaps better that they don't if that's all that's going to come out of the discussion). Both Brian and Josh seem to impose arbitrary rules to govern their relationship—like Australia doesn't count, New Zealand _does_. Josh hasn't been to Brian's house in Ireland, Brian hasn't been to Josh's house in England. Brian noticeably and deliberately doesn't follow Wasps (he _does_ , but he pretends to be surprised whenever Josh talks about how they're doing) and by the way Josh reacts whenever Brian talks about Leinster, it's exactly the same for him. Their encounters are limited to hotel rooms (and one relatively memorable occasion in New Zealand the previous summer, down a lane early one morning). 

They spend a lot of time pretending. They pretend that they haven't travelled here deliberately to see one another. They pretend that they've got other things on, that they've managed to fit each other in in a bizarre twist of fate that means they're both within reach of the same motorway service station hotel at the same time rather than having had to rearrange their diaries in order to be on the same land mass on the same day. 

They pretend that what they've got is just okay, it's just a bit of fun, that it's not becoming more serious with every passing day and every brief encounter. They pretend that what they've got isn't something they want to invest in. 

Brian pretends that Josh feels the same way that he does, even though he really has no idea. 

Brian knows that at some point they're going to have to acknowledge what it is that they're doing, what it is that they mean to one another. He's just glad it doesn't have to be right now. 

They pretend that they're not at the hotel together. They book two rooms (like usual) and use one (like usual). They meet in the bar, being obtrusively loud and relatively obnoxious in a way that they wouldn't be if this really was as innocent encounter as they both try and make it. They pretend to be drunk. 

They stop pretending once they get upstairs. Once the door's shut and the lock's on and they're pulling off their jackets and laughing against each other's mouths and collapsing down onto the bed with hitched breaths and hot kisses that taste like beer and Brian's cigarettes. Brian's hands are under Josh's shirt, tugging at the buttons until he's got his thumbs stroking at Josh's nipples. They've stopped pretending now; when they're kissing it's like what they're doing is real, fingers digging into tight biceps, both struggling for breath as they shrug off their clothes and push against each other. 

They don't look the other way once they've got their clothes off, once they're naked, clothes littering the floor and the obligatory hotel wannabe-armchair. They switch the lamps on (it's dark, but Brian wants to _see_ Josh. Brian spends far too many weeks and months away from Josh, and the last thing he wants to do when he's actually with him is to avoid the opportunity to touch and stare and watch and look). There's a dimmer switch on the head board, and to diffuse the tension, Brian says _what sort of sleazy porn star hotel have you brought me to, Lewsey?_ But they don't pretend to look the other way. They stare at each other until they stop laughing, until they stop smiling and suddenly it's difficult to breathe. 

They touch each other with halting, cautious touches. Their fingers smooth down warm, taut muscles. Brian's hands are in Josh's hair and Josh's palms are flat against the small of Brian's back, and he's tugging him closer until their skin is sticky and damp and hot from sheer proximity. 

They fuck with the lamps on, with the curtains closed, with the doors locked. Josh's skin tastes like he smells, like aftershave and soap and the faint scent of the changing room that never seems to leave, no matter how often Brian tried to soap it away. He hates the remnants of the working day when he gets home, but on Josh he can't get enough of it. 

Afterwards, Josh calls dibs on the left hand side of the bed and Brian's stuck with the right. They grumble and fight over the covers and piss each other off by fiddling with the dimmer switch. 

Brian falls asleep with his knee pressing up against Josh's and with his head on Josh's shoulder. He's fairly sure Josh kisses him to sleep, but when he wakes up he can't remember. 

**2\. New Zealand, Summer 2005, British and Irish Lions Tour.**

Josh calls him _Captain_ , just for a laugh. They're in the hotel and Josh elbows him, eyeing the bar. "Go get the drinks in, O'Driscoll."

Brian raises an eyebrow, just for a laugh, and points at his heavily strapped and ridiculously painful shoulder. "Where do you expect me to hold them, Lewsey? In my bleeding teeth?"

Josh just laughs and shakes his head and just says, "You Irish, you'll do anything to avoid going to the bar."

The spear tackle is a sore point for Brian; he's stupidly angry at the officials for saying the tackle which landed him out of the Tour and in hospital was both legal and safe. Brian is frustrated whilst injured; he doesn't know what to do with himself. There's no chance of him playing during the remainder of the Tour—there's a fairly high chance of him having to have surgery when he's back home and there's no amount of analgesic that's going to take the pain away. He's suggested—fairly brightly, he thinks—that morphine might be a good idea (at least he won't have to sit through watching the rest of the matches from the sidelines), but the medics just laughed at him. Brian sort of wants to say _it's not a joke, guys_ , but it was, so he has to just put up with the pain and the discomfort and work through it. 

Josh brings him an orange juice, moving the empties away to the edge of the table and putting the fresh glass in front of his good arm. "There you go," he says, and Brian wants to say _I'm not an invalid, I can move my own glass_ , but there's something in the way Josh is looking at him, something hot burning at the edge of his voice, something in the straightness of his jaw and the dark heat of his eyes that makes Brian's heart beat faster and his skin prickle. All of a sudden he's back there, back in the Antipodean heat of two years previously, caught up in the burning aftermath of Josh's World Cup win and it's like no time has passed at all between then and now. 

Josh smiles at him, uncertainly. 

Brian swallows. 

They're on the hotel terrace towards the end of the tour and it's hot and busy and full of the team and their trainers and coaches and managers and anyone else who was up for a cold one on their day off after a demanding, difficult and sometimes embarrassing few weeks. They're all tired and sick of travelling and downhearted after their test losses, but Brian sees the flicker and the change in Josh's expression as easily as he recognises the shift in himself. Before he knows what he's doing he's licking his lips and downing the remains of his drink and checking his watch. Dinner is over for the day (Brian will be glad when he can use both a knife and a fork at the same time—being injured is one thing, being unable to cut your own food up completely another) and they haven't got any commitments for the rest of the evening. Brian and Josh won't be missed, so long as they can escape the bar without anyone passing comment. 

Josh follows him out, shirt collar up and eyes fixed forward. He's still carrying the remains of his pint and he finishes it by the lift, leaving the empty glass on the reception counter, next to the leaflets about health spas and the obligatory hotel conference brochure. 

Brian watches him from the corner of his eye whilst they wait for the lift. Brian's trying his best to look nonchalant but there's only so relaxed he can look when he's strapped from neck to shoulder to wrist. Josh is looking deceptively casual, and Brian wonders what it is he's signing up for here. One drunken night two years ago is one thing, coming into it sober two years later is another thing completely. 

They stand at opposite sides of the lift, trying not to make a big deal of it. They're sharing the space with an old couple from Minnesota (they're talking about home) and a Chinese girl whose gaze sits firmly on the closed lift doors. They stand between Brian and Josh, hiding the tension and letting Brian tap his foot against the red carpet as Josh picks at the wallpaper, too deceptively casual to be truly relaxed. 

It seems to take an age to get to their floor, and then along the corridor and outside Josh's room. He's fiddling with the lock and then they're inside, Brian shutting the door behind them with a tap of his foot. The lock clicks. 

Brian finds himself pushed up against the door even as it shuts, Josh ever so gently pushing him backwards and losing his hands in Brian's hair. "Tell me if it hurts," Josh says, softly, and then his mouth is pressed against Brian's and it's just like the last two years of _nothing_ never happened. 

Josh tastes like beer and he's so careful of Brian's shoulder that Brian's ready to cry out in frustration. It's like something out of a bad comedy film; Josh is trying to get into Brian's shirt, but Brian's Robocop sling is limiting access and Brian's hissing in pain every time he tries to help. In the end, Brian just shakes his head and starts to laugh, and Josh leans in and presses a kiss to Brian's mouth. "Come on," he says, and he takes Brian's free hand and leads him back towards the bed. Brian ends up sitting on the edge of it as Josh kneels in front of him, undoing the buttons on his own shirt until it's lying open and Brian can't help but lean forward and run his fingers down Josh's chest. 

Josh—who never says Brian's name, professionally or otherwise—hisses in a breath and says _shit, Brian_ , and Brian's breath catches in his throat. He's got a couple of buttons undone but Josh is reaching for Brian's fly and pressing his palm to Brian's erection. Brian's trying to help but Josh just says _leave it_ , and pushes him backwards on to the bed, helping Brian to shuck his jeans off onto the floor. 

Brian just says, _Josh, Josh_ ; then Josh has straddled him—he's lost his jeans somewhere along the way—and he's leaning over Brian and kissing him. 

There's not much Brian can do with one arm in a sling and high as a kite on pain medication, but at some point he ends up kneeling on the floor kissing his way up the inside of Josh's thigh, and Josh is groaning loudly, fingers splaying across Brian's good shoulder and caught in his hair. He licks at Josh's sternum, but the sense of needing to be somewhere he can't make eye contact (not yet, he's worried about what it might reveal) drives him downwards again and before he knows what he's doing, he's got Josh's erection in his mouth and it's dark and hot and somewhere south of okay. 

Afterwards, when Brian's wiped his mouth and Josh has offered him a hand to help him up onto the bed, Brian promises that next time they do this, once his shoulder's better, he's going to fuck Josh into the mattress. 

Josh turns red, swallows hard and stammers a reply before Brian takes pity on him and kisses him. 

Josh kisses like he plays rugby—hard and intense and looking like he's got something to prove. He tastes like raw, unadulterated heat and it's all Brian can do not to dwell on the two years they haven't been doing this, the sense of loss playing on his mind like the static buzz of white noise. His hands are everywhere, flat on Brian's belly, smoothing down the pale skin on the inside of Brian's wrist, trailing further down until his palm closes around Brian's erection and Brian's world explodes in an array of bright light and hot, gasping breaths. 

Afterwards, when Josh has taken Brian's hand, Brian realises he's well and truly stuffed. 

They fall asleep with the curtains half open and Brian wakes with the light the following morning, a pyramid of sunshine slowly shifting its way across the bed. Josh murmurs in his sleep as Brian slowly (and painfully) extricates himself from the mass of twisted sheets and limbs. He needs painkillers—he's slept badly without them, but he was too tired to contemplate leaving before now—and it's hard enough trying to get dressed whilst wearing a sling without having to figure out which jeans were his and root under the bed for his socks. 

Josh wakes up about the time Brian's managed to do the fly up on his jeans. He's barefoot—having given up trying to find his socks about four milliseconds after he jolted his shoulder against the mattress—and he's pulling out his phone before he realises Josh is awake. 

Josh half-pulls himself up onto his elbows. "Are you okay?" he asks, and Brian's half tempted to say _I'm not a girl_ before he realises Josh is asking about his shoulder. Josh's voice is gruff, hazy from sleep. 

He smiles, tiredly, and nods. "Need painkillers," he says, and Josh nods in response. 

Brian is pretty out of it—he's not a morning person at the best of times, without his shoulder throbbing and Josh naked and half-asleep in front of him. Josh is watching him with a thoughtful look on his face, pink cheeked as Brian carefully pulls out his mobile phone from the back pocket of his jeans, leaning over and leaving it on the bedside table. 

"My phone," Brian says, eyeing Josh warily. Josh nods, cautiously. "I'm just going to forget to take it with me," he goes on, "and leave it here." His fingers touch the silver casing. 

Josh nods again, eyes on Brian's mobile, and Brian finds himself imagining fucking Josh in sunlight, golden skin beneath his fingers, muscles rippling at his touch. 

"Okay?" Brian asks, after a moment. He's standing by the door, his good hand on the handle. 

"Okay," Josh says, sleepily. "I'll be sure to return it to you later on."

"Room 312," Brian tells him, with a grin, and he's careful not to let the door slam on his way out. 

**1\. Australia, 2003. World Cup.**

Brian catches up with the England team three days after the final. They're still riding the crest of the wave (who wouldn't, Brian thinks) and when he first sees them (and the cup) there's a moment where he's so jealous he can barely speak. 

It passes, though, because he's shaking hands and clapping Martin Johnson on the back and raising a glass to the Webb Ellis trophy. It's no secret that rugby is a fairly partisan sport and that the rivalry on the pitch usually extends off the pitch as well, but relations between Ireland and England were usually such that they enjoyed a drink after a match. 

He wasn't there, not on the day itself. He was watching the match on a big screen at the rented house of one of the Irish Rugby bigwigs, drinking his way through bad Australian lager and critiquing every move with the rest of the Irish team who hadn't flown home to be with their families. Brian—who had no one to fly home to, and who wanted a holiday—had taken advantage of the break in his rugby schedule to drink himself stupid and pass out on a sun lounger. He was already sporting a rather fetching pink stripe of sunburn after he'd fallen asleep on his side last week, but luckily that was fading into a pale attempt at a tan. 

The English team were camped out in one of the big hotels on the harbour, taking over the bar and the terrace and purposefully ignoring any dour, dark looks from unforgiving locals. The staff, however, are too polite and too in awe of their jobs to tip the drinks all over them, but it's a close run thing and Brian wonders if the English ever realise how much the rest of the world hates them. 

It's a world of drunken ribaldry, with the England team riding high on their win and running dangerously short of sleep. He's offering congratulations wherever he turns (laced with the whole _was cheering for the Aussies_ thing, because he's as clichéd as the next man) but it's taken in good grace and before long he's got a drink in his hand and he's in with the shoulder slapping and the hand shaking. The mood's infectious and before he knows it, he's beaming like he'd won the cup himself and he's on the terrace with a part share in a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels. He's downing shots with Josh Lewsey and Matt Dawson and Lewis Moody and it looks like it's Moody for the win (Brian would have run him a close second, he's pretty sure) until Moody ends up high in the running order of some sort of arm wrestle contest with Martin Johnson and before Brian realises it, it's him and Josh in the corner with the part remains of the second bottle of whisky. 

Only Lewis Moody would take on Martin Johnson, mad bastard. Josh is grinning inanely and shaking his head, snorting with laughter as Martin floors him—completely as expected. Lewis though, mad as a crazy horse, isn't giving up and soon half the bar are standing over them, cheering. 

Brian's left in the corner, grinning lazily but unwilling to stand up and give up his seat. He's been drinking for days, and it's got to the point where everything's hazy around the edges. He pours him and Josh another shot. 

Josh toasts him before knocking it back and reaching for the bottle to refill both their glasses. 

Brian's turning round and watching Moody hang on for dear life as Johno tries to take him out once again; as he turns back round to the table, just for a hazy, drunken moment he's sure that Josh is shining around the edges. 

A couple more shots and Josh is watching him from under hooded eyes and Brian's pretty sure that Josh's knee pressing up against his under the table is there on purpose. 

One more shot and Brian's thigh is pushed up next to Josh's, and Brian can't take his eyes off Josh's mouth. 

Five more minutes and he's in Josh Lewsey's hotel room, pushed up against the wall as the door slams behind them. He's kissing Josh and his hands are everywhere, fingers in his hair, touching his cheek, his shoulder. He's pushing up against Josh's erection, knee jammed up between Josh's legs. 

It's the drink talking, he thinks haphazardly as he kisses Josh back, his tongue in Josh's mouth. 

Josh is pulling him back towards the bed, sinking down on his knees and pushing Brian back down onto the mattress with a ill-timed _oomph_. Josh blows him lazily and drunkenly, but Brian's keening onto the hot air, making noises he can't remember making before and he's fairly sure he cries out as he comes, Josh muffling the sound with his hand. 

The room smells like Jack Daniels and sex and before Brian knows quite what he's doing, he's tugging Josh up onto the bed and leaning down over him. Brian's skin is prickling and burning with the come down and he's forcing Josh's trousers down over his thighs and stuffing his hand down Josh's pants and okay, his wrist isn't supposed to bend like that but _Christ_ , it's hot. He's kissing Josh as he brings him off, their breath damp and heavy against the air. Josh's fingers are clutching Brian's and it's all Brian can do to stay where he is and not roll over and press him into the mattress. But he's drunk and he knows it and hand jobs and blow jobs are one thing but fucking is another thing entirely and Brian's fairly sure he's lacking the co-ordination to do it properly at this stage in the game of Jack Daniels and shots. His fingers twist and catch in the burning heat of Josh's erection, then there's a gasp and a tight breath (smothered by Brian kissing him, mouth against his to capture the sound and the feeling) and then there's nothing but heat and movement stilled by the light. 

Brian's whole body is covered with a sheen of sweat and he's lazily, drunkenly sleepy. Josh is lying on his back, half undressed with stained jeans and sheets. 

"World Cup," Josh says, softly, wondrously. His hand is touching his breastbone, maybe remembering the feel of the winner's medal beneath his fingers. 

"Prick," Brian says, but without malice. He's shucks up onto one shoulder, watching Josh lazily. He wants to know what it feels like to be a winner, what it feels like to touch the trophy and know that it was his, that he earned it. That he was part of the best team in the world. He wants to ask Josh to explain it, to share how he felt when the final whistle blew and the realisation hit. 

He can't find the words, though, so he just ducks his head and presses his mouth to Josh's sternum. He rests there, just for a moment, and he can feel the beat of Josh's heart beneath his ribcage. Josh's fingers curl in his hair. 

Josh falls asleep between one kiss and the next, which is hardly surprising considering how much they'd both drunk. Brian grins sleepily and rolls over onto his back. Josh is already snoring gently, and when Brian pokes him in the side he grumbles under his breath before rolling onto his side. 

In the morning, Brian wakes with the sun and closes the door quietly behind him as he leaves. 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> 5\. Six Nations, 2007  
> The final weekend of the Six Nations championship was the decider, when either England, France or Ireland could have pulled off the win. Ireland played first, and then France and finally England. [wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2007_Six_Nations_Championship)  
> 4\. Summer 2006, Downtime.  
> Josh really did go to the Himalayas during his downtime. Mad bastard. [Josh's wikipedia page](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josh_Lewsey)  
> 3\. Six Nations, 2006  
> Another close run Six Nations championship, this time coming down to points difference between France and Ireland at the final weekend. wikipedia  
> 2\. New Zealand, Summer 2005, British and Irish Lions Tour.  
> Both Brian and Josh toured New Zealand with the British and Irish lions, Brian being ruled out with injury in the opening minutes of the first test in a highly controversial tackle. [British and Irish Lions Tour](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2005_British_and_Irish_Lions_tour_to_New_Zealand)  
> 1\. World Cup, Australia 2003.  
> England won. According to Will Greenwood's autobiography (which is lovely) the relationship between England and Ireland is very good and they really do enjoy a drink after the matches.


End file.
